


foreboding

by fluffysfics



Series: rewriting history [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Bonding over video games, Canon Divergent, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Introspection, I’m sorry, Lightly Ominous Ending, The Master Has Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28199637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: It’s another sleepless night for the Master. And for Ryan Sinclair.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: rewriting history [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064198
Comments: 11
Kudos: 54





	foreboding

**Author's Note:**

> this AU has me by the shoulders and won’t let go, I wrote this fic in the span of two hours this morning

Being alone at night is not good for him. That is a fact very firmly established in the Master’s mind by now. 

He’s taken to wandering the corridors throughout the early hours, instead. Sometimes he’ll find himself in the Doctor’s bedroom- sometimes he’ll find himself on his back in her bed, her warm weight on top of him, and those might be the only nights where everything in his head _truly_ shuts up for a while. 

The drums he used to contend with are _nothing_ compared to guilt. 

Most nights, though, the TARDIS dooms him to simply _wander_. Around in circles, or through an endless maze of changing corridors, and then inevitably back to his bedroom by the morning to get dressed and clean himself up before he has to go and meet the Doctor and her humans for breakfast. It’s like being stuck in limbo, or purgatory, or perhaps just a particularly boring part of the Matrix. 

He’s been pacing along the same looping hundred metres of corridor, trying his best not to think about the chameleon arch in his bedside drawer, for about an hour now when- when he _hears_ something. Gunfire. Heavy gunfire, and artillery- the faint, muffled shouts of men barking orders. American men, by the sounds of it. 

The Master frowns. The TARDIS is a big place, but he’s pretty sure that there’s not a secret battlefield hidden away on board. Walking curiously closer, he cracks open a door, and finds himself...in a games room. 

It’s a fancy one, too. The ceilings are high enough to accommodate a cinema-sized screen, upon which is displayed a rather bloody first-person shooter with twenty-first century graphics. On either side of the screen, silver hexagons spiral out across the walls, forming random patterns that the Master follows backwards until his eyes come to rest on a comfortable sofa about halfway through the room. 

Sat on it is Ryan, wrapped in several blankets and looking intensely focused on his task of killing...whatever. They might be Russians, the Master thinks. Perhaps he’s playing through the not-so-Cold War. Earth games are like that, always taking conflicts and making them even more ridiculously bloody than they were in the first place. He’s never quite understood the appeal. 

He clears his throat. Ryan damn near jumps out of his skin, dropping the controller. His character dies almost immediately, the screen fading to black. 

“Sorry,” the Master says instinctively. 

“‘S alright, mate.” Ryan glances at the blankets he’s tangled himself in, and starts sheepishly trying to push them away. Unfortunately, he’s cocooned himself rather tightly. 

“Don’t- if you’re comfortable, don’t change that on my behalf.” Walking across the room, the Master settles himself down on the opposite corner of the sofa. He’s so _tired_ of his own thoughts. Perhaps spending some time with Ryan will help. 

Giving up on freeing himself, Ryan shrugs, and stares at him for a few seconds. Neither of them are quite sure what to say, it seems. Ryan is perhaps the most _normal_ of the Doctor’s companions; he likes sports, and loud music, and video games, and doesn’t know very much about anything out of the ordinary. The Master always finds himself a bit lost when trying to seek some common ground. 

“Um,” Ryan says eventually. “D’you want to play?” 

Not once in his many lives has he found a game like this appealing. But then again, he has never actually played one. Glancing at the arm of the sofa, the Master finds a second controller sitting there. He picks it up, testing how it feels in his hands. Not too bad. 

“Sure. Don’t see why not. Can’t promise I’ll be any good.” 

Turning the controller on, he sets himself up a character. The suggested name is _Maestro_ , and he spares a second to glare at the ceiling before deleting it and simply typing _O_. That’s too short, so he makes it _O1234_. 

“I’m not much good either,” Ryan admits. “Dyspraxia and all that. Messes up me coordination. But I’m gettin’ better.” He nods to his high score displayed on the screen. Having absolutely no context for what the numbers mean, the Master nods and gives an impressed-sounding hum. Ryan seems pleased enough by that acknowledgement, and starts up another game. 

The screen splits into two. The Master finds himself looking at a battlefield, the barrel of a gun on his screen, and numerous enemy soldiers surrounding him. A quick glance over at Ryan tells him the right controls, and he gets to work. 

This is...surprisingly satisfying, actually. The controller gives a firm kick of feedback every time he fires his weapon, and another small, pleasing _thud_ every time a bullet hits home. The game is surprisingly realistic-looking, too; for a moment, the Master wonders why an otherwise perfectly nice human is fine with the simulated murders of hundreds of his species. Then he remembers that humans are just _like that_ , and he shakes his head, and carries on blasting. Human nature is not for him to question tonight. 

Once he’s mastered the controls, he looks over at Ryan again. He’s concentrating _fiercely_ , tongue poking out and hands gripping the controller so tightly that his knuckles go pale. Every so often, one of his fingers slips clumsily off of a button, and there’s the faintest twitch of annoyance on Ryan’s face before he gets back to what he’s doing. It’s...kind of fascinating. 

The Master survives the first wave of enemy soldiers, but the second comes with heavy artillery, and he hasn’t quite nailed how to dodge things yet. His character slumps to the ground, and he’s left with nothing to do except watch Ryan. 

“You’re good at this,” he says carefully. “Really good. I- how much practise d’you get in? Thought the Doctor kept us all busy enough...” 

“Don’t sleep much sometimes,” Ryan says, not taking his eyes off of the screen. “‘Specially not this week, after the head-spiders.” 

The Master grimaces. That’s...fair enough. The other day, they’d split up on an adventure, and Ryan and Yaz had found themselves accosted by some harmless, but still deeply _unpleasant_ jumping spiders. Graham had received a very panicked phone call, and everyone had rushed back to find Ryan standing incredibly still with a very large spider sat on his head. 

At least, until the Doctor had plucked it off for him and given it a kiss on the cheek, like it was nothing. She was _weird_ about alien animals. 

“Least that one didn’t hurt you,” the Master points out. 

“Yeh. Still can’t sleep.” Ryan shudders, and loses concentration for a moment, exclaiming in frustration as his character dies right at the start of the third wave of enemies. He throws his controller at the sofa, and it bounces, hitting the Master in the leg. 

He says nothing, just hands it back. It feels...like something that’s off-limits, teasing Ryan for getting worked up about a video game. He’s not sure why. Consciences are _strange_. 

“Sorry, O,” Ryan says after a minute. “I try not to get like that. It’s just- frustrating, y’know? I know what I’m doin’ but my hands won’t do it sometimes. Even if I really try.” 

“Yeah. I get it. I mean- well, I sympathise. Know what it’s like to keep throwing yourself at a wall without getting very far.” That’s most of his life summed up neatly, really. Particularly the recent chapter. He can make as much progress as he likes on his relationship with the Doctor, and not one little bit of it is real. It _hurts_. 

“I am gettin’ better, though,” Ryan insists. “Just takes practise. Gotta stick at it.” He looks at the Master. “Round two?” 

The Master glances down at the controller in his lap. Ryan hasn’t asked why _he’s_ awake, not yet, and he would rather like to keep it that way. He’s too weary to lie. Or- to lie more than usual, at least. 

“Think I’m gonna go to bed,” he says, shaking his head. “Thanks, though. For letting me play with you. Appreciated it. Really.” 

“Oh. Uh, it was nothin,” Ryan says, grinning at him. 

The Master stands up, resting a warm hand on Ryan’s shoulder for a moment before starting to walk out of the room. “Night.” 

“Night, O.” 

It stings him, how much that name does actually feel like his own now. 

——

The Master does go to bed after that. And he does sleep, for an hour or two, at least. It’s fitful sleep, but still more than he’s managed in two whole weeks, so he’ll take it. 

He’s woken by several seconds of very vigorous two-handed knocking on the door. Only the Doctor has that level of energy at this time in the morning. 

“Come in, he mumbles sleepily. The door bursts open, and she skips inside, coming to sit on the bed without being invited. It’s a good thing that he adores her, or he might be annoyed by that. 

“Morning, O,” she says cheerily. “I popped out to get breakfast. Lovely little planet with an _amazing_ night market- it’s all sparkly, even the people. Everyone twinkles in the moonlight, and there’s all these stalls sellin’ all sorts of food, so I bought us, uh...they look like cinnamon rolls, I think. But they smell kinda like beef. Or maybe salmon. Maybe there are two flavours, didn’t check. So- we’ll see!” 

The Master properly extricates himself from under the covers. This wouldn’t be the first time that the Doctor has gone out to get them breakfast, but it would be the first time that she’s come to tell him about it. Generally she just waits in one of the kitchens for everyone to find her, and then regales them with her usually-very-weird exploits. 

“You’re not carrying breakfast with you,” he observes. 

“Nah. It’s in the kitchen. The old Victorian-y one this time. Like that one. Gonna pop back in a minute, before the others get up. But I wanted to see you first.” She looks...sheepish. There’s a faint blush on her cheeks, and the Master notices for the first time that she’s clutching something wrapped in paper. 

He eyes it for a moment, and then sits up in bed, smoothing down his hair. “Why?” 

“Um,” the Doctor says. “Well. They don’t just sell food at the night markets. Lots of other cool stuff, too. Even pets. These neat little fluffy things that sound like cats, but they’re all- sorry. Sorry, I’m getting off topic. Anyway. Um.” She stares at him, not saying another word. 

The Master stares right back for at least four seconds. Then, he glances at the paper parcel she’s gripping. “Is that for me?” 

The Doctor starts, like she hadn’t even realised that she’d frozen up. Then she nods, and shoves the paper at him. Before he can thank her, or open it, she kisses him on the cheek and then springs up and darts out of the room, calling something over her shoulder about needing to find the kitchen _now_ before her other companions wake up. 

He’s reminded of their childhood, when the Doctor had been utterly useless at flirting with him, and had frequently turned red enough to match his robes. Clearly, age had not come with smoothness, in the Doctor’s case. 

Smiling despite himself, the Master unfolds the wrapping paper, revealing...a necklace. It’s made of glass; a flat ring maybe an inch and a half in diameter, rich purple at the top, fading down into a soft blue. It looks like a particularly thick letter O, he notices, lifting it up by the leather cord it comes on. And it’s in their colours. That’s _ridiculously_ sentimental. A few weeks ago, he would have laughed. 

Now, he holds the glass pendant in his hands, running his thumb over the flat surface until it warms up. Then, he slips it around his neck. Under his shirt, so that he can feel it against his skin. 

It’s still a little cold, smooth and heavy and solid. The Master reaches up, touching the glass through his shirt, and feels his hearts flutter like he’s a teenager again. 

It’s a nice present. Surprising, certainly. 

And yet..as he sits there, fingertips idly rubbing at the smooth, round surface of the necklace, he is struck by the strangest sense of foreboding. 

**Author's Note:**

> if you can guess what this is leading up to, you get a virtual cookie and my sincerest apologies
> 
> hope you enjoyed, comments and kudos are super appreciated, I love hearing what people are thinking of this series so far <3


End file.
